Issue 1 Draft 3

people die every day,
many people,
1000 feet, across the street,
from where I work–
on a big ward
in a big building
near my building.
in my building, I make myself busy
on the 8th floor
of a tall, gray box,
with my crackly keyboard,
and my twisty pipettes,
and my chalky meetings,
and I take care of cells, also,
from dead people.
I nourish these cells,
and I put them into mice,
watch them birth horrible tumors,
and the mice also die–
memory
By Jill Jones
M2, Harvard Medical School
and the weight of the world just the same;
would they tell me
that they’ve resolved
this is a righteous,
reconciliatory afterlife?
these Cell Ancestors–
are they beside me,
in the walls of my tall, gray building,
on the 8th floor
where I am thinking
every day, all the time, and not enough
of These Dead and others–
in this building where their cells and I
just carry on–
in this building
where I wonder–
when I, too, leave for good,
Will someone take my cells,
and nourish them as I once did?,
and put them into mice,
helping others to one day
be less sick of grief
and the weight of the world
just the same–
I am so sorry for the mice–
as I sit
inside the Big Feeling
that these mice,
and these cells from People No Longer,
almost assuredly
have spirits too.
in any case,
I wonder if these cells’ ancestors
know what we are discovering
about the smallest parts
of their beloved bodies,
helping others who lay dying
to be less sick of cancer
and grief
Illustrations by Lillian Zhu
in this building
where I wonder
whose fingers mine will be holding
as I transition–
and if at the end, I’ll be strong enough
to squeeze back,
present enough to cry;
Will it be painful, dear,
will that love
from My Handholder
become my legacy?
and how long might my name,
the names of those who died before me,
who died 1000 feet from me
while I was finishing my coffee
across the street,
slip in and out of others’ mouths
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